


The Empire State Affair

by Jazline



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:08:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25614847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jazline/pseuds/Jazline
Summary: Just another day defending the world - today, though, it's the Empire State!
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

**Early Monday Morning  
Mid-October**  
  
The piercing sound of Napoleon Solo’s pen communicator woke him from a sound sleep. He squinted at the clock in the dark while fishing around the night stand for his pen. _Damn! 4:10. This better be good!_  
  
“Solo here,” he mumbled into the communicator after twisting it open. After a quick subtraction, Napoleon calculated that he had only been asleep a little over an hour. His evening with Isabella Dellamara was well worth it, though.  
  
“Aah, good morning, Mr. Solo.”  
  
Napoleon squinted at his pen. “Mr. Waverly?”  
  
“Sorry to wake you at this ridiculous hour, but I am in need of your assistance.”

  
Solo was showered, shaved, dressed and at headquarters just after 5. Almost a record for him. Fortunately, traffic was light. Adrenaline had kicked in along with Waverly’s communiqué, and the CEA was immediately in top form without the benefits of a single drop of coffee.  
  
Alexander Waverly was scheduled to fly from LaGuardia to Los Angeles for a meeting with the the UNCLE LA-HQ’s Section One Chief that morning. Waverly’s personal security officer was called away; his father had suddenly died. This security officer, Waverly’s escort and bodyguard during the flight, needed to be replaced immediately. Thrush activity was reportedly high in the Los Angeles area, so Waverly wanted one of his top enforcement agent to take his place.  
  
Napoleon Solo was the old man’s first choice.  
  
Napoleon wished his partner was available, but Illya Kuryakin’s return flight from his current mission in Argentina wouldn’t be landing until two hours after Waverly’s scheduled 6 am take-off.  
  
A private UNCLE jet would be waiting on the tarmac of LaGuardia Airport. According to plan, Alexander Waverly, along with Napoleon and three other UNCLE security officers were to leave headquarters at precisely 5:20 am and be on board by 6:00.  
  
To avoid suspicion, Waverly chose to ride in the back of a “Smolenski’s Catering” van, a secured, bullet-proof UNCLE vehicle. He assumed Thrush would be on the lookout for a typical UNCLE limo, one of several which would generally leave headquarters from various exits and be dispersed throughout the city - several sets of red herrings - but today he chose to travel in the van.  
  
“Why not take the helicopter?” Napoleon had asked him, assuming his boss would have chosen the most expedient mode.  
  
“I prefer to be as inconspicuous as possible,” was the reply.  
  
While Waverly finished packing up the necessary documents in his valise, Napoleon helped himself to a cup of coffee from his boss’ never-empty carafe. Hot, strong... he added two sugars in it for a little extra jolt ...sweet.  
  


* * * * *

  
The van was waiting for Napoleon and Mr. Waverly at their pre-planned spot. Dexter Cole, who would be riding in the back with them, waited by the van’s sliding door to usher them in. The driver and agent riding ‘shotgun’ were already in the front seat, prepared to leave immediately.  
  
Seconds later, Napoleon pounded on the Plexiglas panel between them and the driver took off.  
  
Traffic had picked up a little since Napoleon had entered headquarters. Still light, though. Hopefully the traffic along the Brooklyn/Queens Expressway would be just as accommodating.  
  
Napoleon saw it first.  
  
A tractor trailer was backing out of a side street on the right, not checking to see if another vehicle was in his path. Instinctively, Napoleon drew his weapon before pushing Waverly to the floor. He shielded his boss with his own body, trying to keep them both from jostling around unnecessarily during the collision.  
  
The UNCLE driver expertly maneuvered to the left and out of harm’s way, only to collide with another vehicle - a trash truck heading directly towards them on the driver’s side. The front of the van was sandwiched between the two trucks.  
  
The van came to an immediate halt and for a few seconds; an eerie silence filled the vehicle. Napoleon looked around. The driver and his partner were slumped over the dashboard, crushed from being wedged between the two large trucks. Dexter Cole had been thrown around the interior of the van like a rag doll, and now lay still on the floor a few feet away. Solo felt Mr. Waverly shift his weight beneath him.  
  
“Are you OK, sir?” Napoleon asked as he lifted himself off his boss. He felt a little shaky, but refused to give in to it.  
  
“I believe so, Mr. Solo.” Waverly’s voice was not as commanding as usual. “What the hell happened?”  
  
Sounds of people coming to their rescue began filling the street. In the distance, the wail of sirens could be heard. Through the shattered windshield, both Napoleon and Mr. Waverly saw and smelled the smoke rising from the engine.  
  
They had to get out of the van. Napoleon holstered his weapon and he and his boss began clawing at the door, now bent at the hinges and off its tracks. They could hear more people from the outside coming to their assistance.  
  
What looked like a the tip of a crowbar poked through a small opening between the door and the body of the van. Solo and Waverly hoped whoever was helping would be able to get the door open before the engine smoke filled the van, or worse yet, the engine ignited and the vehicle went up in flames.  
  
The crowbar wedged its way further through the door’s seam and rocked a bit. Napoleon and Waverly clawed at the door again.  
  
Through the commotion, the UNCLE men heard a soft hissing sound. They looked down to see a bluish smoke filtering through the tip of the crowbar.  
  
“Damn it!” Solo shouted. “Gas!”  
  
Both he and Waverly buried their noses and mouths in the crooks of their elbows and headed towards the front of the vehicle, taking the risk of exiting over a smoldering engine rather than become victims of a Thrush kidnapping.  
  
The Plexiglas between them and the cab refused to yield. It was cracked and separated in several places, but so well embedded into the frame that neither of the men could remove even one piece of it.  
  
Eventually the effects of the gas subdued them and the two men from UNCLE collapsed on the floor of the van.  
  


* * * * *

  
Alexander Waverly began to stir first. Like one of his well trained agents, he acclimated himself to his surroundings before showing any outward signs of wakefulness.  
  
He knew he was seated upright in a chair. His arms were secured to armrests, his ankles bound to the legs of a chair. A band surrounded his chest from below the armpits. He felt something grabbing at his windpipe, binding him around the neck, but as he slowly straightened his head, the sensation lessened.  
  
His head throbbed. It had been many years since he was last subjected to one of Thrush’s knock-out drugs, but the memory of their after effects were as vivid as though it had been last week. Only the newer potions definitely left more residual discomfort after wearing off. He’d have to discuss this with his medical lab people.  
  
Through slitted eyelids, Waverly assessed the layout of the room. Average size, maybe 25 feet square with generic white walls and high ceilings. Other than the chair he was seated in, the room had no furniture. Bright light streamed in through a large window, spanning practically ceiling to floor. The window, like the room itself, lacked any adornments.  
  
With eyes fully open now, Waverly looked around. He was facing the window with a clear view of the New York City skyline before him. The window perched at least a dozen storeys high; the Empire State Building graced center stage. Judging by the angle of light streaming in compared to the position of the buildings, he estimated the time to be about 9 am.  
  
His eyes fixed on a pair of water pipes running along the upper perimeter of the wall, suspended about 6 inches from the ceiling and 12 inches apart. He tracked them turning a corner and continuing along the side wall.  
  
Several feet from the corner, the still unconscious body of Napoleon Solo hung from the pipes, his wrists fastened with thick rope. Directly beneath him was the only other item in the room, a cast iron radiator. Whoever hung him from the pipes tied his ankles to the radiator for additional security.  
  
The doorway was on the wall directly behind Alexander Waverly, out of reach and completely inaccessible to the two men from UNCLE.  
  
Waverly’s CEA hung motionlessly with his head pitched forward. His breathing was slow and labored from the stress of being hung like a side of beef. Solo’s clothing was disheveled, indicating that he had been carelessly redressed after having been thoroughly searched. The crisp white shirt was rumpled and devoid of any buttons, and hanging loosely over the equally rumpled dark blue trousers. His shoes and socks were missing, as well as his gun and whatever else they could find on him.  
  
The ropes had been suspended across the two pipes, preventing one swollen hand from assisting the other when he would eventually wake.  
  
“Mr. Solo!” Waverly snapped. No response.  
  
Waverly tried shifting his weight to turn his chair around, but found it was stationery - bolted to the floor. He struggled against the bonds again, hoping something would have loosened since the last time he tried.  
  
“Mr. Solo! Wake up!” he barked again.  
  
This time, the chief saw Napoleon’s head shift ever so slightly.  
  
“Can you hear me, Mr. Solo? Wake up!”  
  
Solo’s eyes opened at the sound of his boss’ demands, and although somewhat dazed, he found the source of the voice almost immediately.  
  
“Shit!” he muttered under his breath as soon as he became aware of his predicament. Simultaneously, his arms and legs tried moving to assist Waverly, but the bonds held him securely to the pipes and radiator. As he moved, a stab of pain pierced his brain. He shut his eyes tightly and grimaced. “How long have we been here?”  
  
“I estimate a few hours, Mr. Solo,” Waverly answered, still trying to free himself of his own bonds. “I assume it’s about 9 in the morning.”  
  
“That means that Thrush must have had us for at least three hours,” Solo said while rubbing the calf of his left leg against his right. The specially designed switchblade did not spring open. _Damn!_  
  
“I also assume they’ve stripped you of all your equipment,” Waverly surmised. “I’ve been relieved of all mine.”  
  
Solo looked up at his bound wrists. “”Yup! Mine as well, sir.” The way the ropes suspended him rendered him unable to untie the knots. He looked down at the radiator and his securely tied feet. “This doesn’t look too good.”  
  
Waverly “harrumph”ed.  
  
“At least we have a nice view,” Solo remarked flatly, looking out the window. “Obviously Thrush has secured a piece of prime real estate.”  
  
The sound of deadbolt being unlocked interrupted their conversation. Unlike Waverly, whose back was to the door, Napoleon had full view of the two suited men entering.  
  
“Aah, we were wondering who’s hosting this little party,” Solo said, smiling. “If it’s not our old friends Luther Cameron and Walter Newell,” he added for the benefit of his boss.  
  
“Cameron and Newell?” Waverly asked, straining to turn his head against the band which grasped him around the throat. “You two are still alive?”  
  
Newell walked around to the front of Waverly’s chair. He stood with his arms crossed across his chest, trying to look intimidating. “Unfortunately for you, we are. I’m sorry to say that this will not be a pleasant experience for either of you, unless, of course, you make the sensible decision to become cooperative.”  
  
“Still lacking the social graces I see,” Waverly chuckled. “What ever happened to the fine art of small talk?”  
  
He raised his right arm to backhand Waverly across the face when his attention was diverted to Cameron, now standing behind the chair. Newell’s lips snarled slightly before he lowered his hand. Luther Cameron obviously stilled his guard dog.  
  
“You gentlemen are in luck today,” Cameron mused, flippant as always. “We’re expecting a visit from Gregory Purnell shortly... are you both familiar with him?”  
  
“Gregory...Gregory Purnell... hmmm...” Napoleon said, tasting each word, looking skyward as if trying to recall the name. “Um... isn’t he the new guy you recently hired as an interrogator?”  
  
“Very good, Mr. Solo,” Cameron commended. “You have obviously been reading up on your list of current Thrush operatives.” He patted Alexander Waverly on the back. “You’ve kept your agents up to snuff, I see. Commendable.”  
  
“Before you get too excited about Purnell, Cameron,” Solo continued, “I heard his track records has been far from exemplary. I believe he’s failed on more than one occasion, yet for some reason, Thrush keeps him on.”  
  
“Perhaps you’ve heard wrong, Mr. Solo,” Cameron countered. “Although I’ve never personally met the man, his reputation precedes him with glowing reports.”  
  
“Glowing?” Waverly repeated, his eyebrows raised. “Glowing? That’s all you can say about him?” The UNCLE chief nodded his head towards Walter Newell. “From what I’ve read, this neanderthal could do an equally inadequate job.”  
  
Napoleon watched with a mixture of concern and amusement as his boss continued baiting their captors. For some strange reason, neither retaliated with anything more potent than verbiage. _Unlike Thrush_ , he thought. But his boss had summed up the situation almost immediately before badgering the enemy. With all his years of experience he knew how to handle the opponent.  
  
“So tell me, boys... just what is so special about this Gregory Purnell?” Solo asked as he tried shifting his weight a little. His wrists began to burn from the ropes. If only he could get a foothold on the radiator to lighten some of his weight.  
  
“I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?” Newell answered. “Lucky for you he likes to work on a ‘clean canvas’.”  
  
“Clean canvas?” both Solo and Waverly asked in unison.  
  
“Like I said, it’s lucky for you he wanted his two UNCLE prisoners pristine...,” Newell responded. “...untouched. He wants to conduct the entire interrogation his own way.”  
  
Cameron laughed heartily. “We tried to convince him otherwise... honestly, we did. But he insisted on working you two over on his own terms.”  
  
“I surely hope he appreciates our sacrifice!” Newell added, cracking his knuckles. “He’s taking away all my fun.”  
  
“While we have a little time to kill,” Solo said, “perhaps you could fill us in with Purnell’s agenda. I assume there’s something he wants... not that we plan to give it to him. But let’s cut to the chase. What lame demands will Thrush be imposing on us this time?”  
  
Newell and Cameron looked at each other, silently deciding whether or not they should steal a little of Gregory Purnell’s thunder. Newell snickered and Cameron nodded. Why not.  
  
Luther Cameron walked to the window and dramatically swept his arm from the bottom of the pane and upward, as if displaying the vista for the first time.  
  
“Enjoy this view for the last time, my friends,” Cameron announced. “Because as of 4:30 this afternoon, the skyline of New York City will change.”  
  
Cameron paused a moment, waiting for a response from either Napoleon Solo or Alexander Waverly. None came. Luther decided to continue.  
  
“Just before quitting time, just before the streets are full of diligent workers planning to head home to hearth and family, Thrush is going to demolish the Empire State Building.”  
  
Again, Luther received no response from either man from UNCLE.  
  
“Well?” Cameron finally asked after a long moment of silence. “Whaddayathink?”  
  
Waverly “Harrumph”ed.  
  
“OK, to humor you, we’ll bite, Luther,” Solo finally said nonchalantly. “What diabolical little scheme have you cooked up this time?”  
  
“Diabolical, yes... little, no, Napoleon,” Cameron corrected. “Thrush plans to kill thousands of innocent people and shut down the majority of Manhattan today at precisely 4:30, like I said. But...”  
  
Solo chuckled. “There’s always a ‘but’, isn’t there?”  
  
“Naturally, Mr. Solo. I assume you want to hear how the two of you fit in.”  
  
“I seem to have a little free time on my hands, Luther,” Napoleon said, looking up at the ropes binding his wrists. “Go on, then.”  
  
“Thrush will avert the disaster of this magnitude if you...” Cameron pointed to Alexander Waverly, “relinquish control of UNCLE to us.”  
  
The silence was deafening. Even Alexander Waverly was momentarily speechless.  
  
“You are obviously delusional,” Waverly finally said. “Even if I were eliminated by this so-called interrogator you plan to send in, my position would be filled before my body turned cold.”  
  
“But we have Mr. Solo right here,” Cameron said, pointing to Napoleon. “He would have been your choice to fill your chair, but I doubt he would be spared either. Purnell is a bit of a madman, I hear. Very fanatical, very thorough.”  
  
“And you honestly think I would turn our New York Headquarters over to Thrush?”  
  
“To save the lives of thousands? I would wager ‘yes’.”  
  
Waverly glared at him. “Just don’t make your wager too high.”  
  
“I believe you underestimate my boss,” Solo chimed in. “Although he looks like he cares, beneath that benign, paternal exterior lies a heart of stone. I can tell you this from personal experience.”  
  
“That’s quite enough, Mr. Solo,” Waverly quietly instructed. “I believe these gentlemen from Thrush will come to their own conclusions.”  
  
“But Mr. Waverly, you’re assuming they have the innate analytical intelligence to do so,” the UNCLE CEA returned. “Well, maybe one of the pair has...”  
  
“Your tone will change as the afternoon progresses,” Luther Cameron assured them. “As the clock ticks on closer to 4:30... or ‘H’ Hour as I like to consider it, I doubt you will be so cocky.” He chuckled. “That, of course, is only if you have enough life left in you. I don’t know who Purnell plans to work on first, although I would assume it would be Napoleon. He’s younger, a lot more fit than an old gent like yourself. And he would probably provide a lot more entertainment for Purnell and his team than you would.”  
  
Waverly glared at Cameron again, maintaining his air of authority.  
  
“Well, gentlemen,” Solo said, struggling with his bonds again, “I’m actually much more agreeable to negotiations like this if I were to be in a more comfortable position, so perhaps, if you would be so kind as to cut these ropes and...”  
  
“That’s enough, Mr. Solo!” Waverly barked.  
  
“Let’s be reasonable, eh?” Napoleon sighed. “I’m trussed up here like a chicken waiting to have its throat slit and you’re seated in relative comfort. With a panoramic view of the city nevertheless. Neither of us seems to be going anywhere at the moment, and let’s face it, our prospects don’t look too promising.”  
  
“Mr. Solo...!” The UNCLE chief’s voice was threatening.  
  
“Don’t ‘Mr. Solo’ me!” Napoleon snapped. “Tell you what, let’s change places.” The agent turned his attention to Cameron. He motioned for the Thrush goon to come over with a nod of the head. “Come on, Luther. String up my boss for a change.”  
  
“Stop this nonsense immediately!” came another command from Waverly.  
  
Alexander Waverly was in tune with Solo’s agenda. If Thrush bit and released either one of them, their chances for survival would increase dramatically.  
  
Cameron finally spoke up. “Well, this is rather amusing, gentlemen, but I’m not falling for your little charade.”  
  
“Charade?” Napoleon Solo repeated. “I’m willing to come to some sort of agreement with you two goons and you doubt my sincerity?”  
  
“Solo, I don’t trust you as far as I can throw you.”  
  
“You two are dumber than you appear. And here I thought you would have the intelligence to realize you could win a few brownie points with Thrush if you got to us before Gregory Purnell. Don’t you see that I am willing to work with you, you ignorant sons-of-bitches?”  
  
Walter Newell advanced towards Napoleon as quickly as his legs could carry him, his fists clenched to pummel the agent. Luther Cameron once again stopped him.  
  
“Down, boy,” the UNCLE CEA chided, as if giving commands to a dog. “Gregory Purnell wants a ‘clean canvas’.”  
  
The door to the room opened without the courtesy of a knock. Another suited man entered and spoke privately in Cameron’s ear. After only a few words, the new man turned to leave. Cameron nodded to Walter Newell and the two of them left the room.  
  
“I assume that means Gregory Purnell is on his way,” Napoleon called to them as they shut the door. The sound of a deadbolt being locked resounded through the barren room.


	2. Chapter 2

Neither Solo nor Waverly knew how much time they would have before the new Thrush interrogator began working on them. As soon as the door shut, Napoleon began rubbing the ropes of his ankle bonds against the underside of the radiator section securing him. Hopefully, he could weaken the ropes and cut through them if the metal was rough enough.  
  
The old man kept trying his bonds, finding them unrelenting. He turned his head to watch his CEA work in earnest to free himself. Neither seemed to be making much progress.  
  
They both remained silent, uncertain if the room was bugged. In their precursory visual scans, neither of the UNCLE men saw one, but that did not negate the possibility one had been concealed.  
  
Finally, Napoleon felt a slight ‘give’ in the ropes. He was unable to see the progress because of his position. Waverly looked the ropes binding Solo’s feet and smiled slightly, nodding. After what seemed like an endless period of time, the ropes frayed a little more. Napoleon caught his boss’ eye and knew by the expression on Waverly’s face he had almost cut clear through.  
  
Another moment and his feet were freed from the confines of the radiator.  
  
Without allowing himself a respite to catch his breath, Napoleon looked upwards to the pipes which held the ropes binding his wrists. He was now able to shift weight from one arm to the other, elevating one hand to actually grasp a pipe. Once he had a firm hold, he clasped the second pipe with his other hand.  
  
Taking only a few seconds to test the strength in his numb, swollen hands, he grabbed the pipes the best he could and swung his feet up, hoping to wrap his legs around the pipes and alleviate the weight on his hands. He tried once and missed. Then a second time. One foot caught hold; the other foot was in a bad position... too close to the wall... it dangled down after the unsuccessful attempt. On the third time, he was successful. _Three’s a charm_ , he mused to himself.  
  
With legs wrapped around the pipes and the weight off his wrists, Napoleon Solo was able to untie the last ropes. As he began, he heard the deadbolt in the door unlocking.  
  
Waverly cast him a ‘Hurry up!’ look but doubted Napoleon could free himself in time.  
  
By a streak of Solo luck, he managed to untie the ropes and be back in what appeared to be his original position by the time the door opened. Three men entered.  
  
One, obviously Gregory Purnell, was the smallest of the three. He carried himself with authority, chin high, arrogant. A large ten-gallon hat sat atop his head, looking almost disproportionately large for the size of the man. Dark glasses concealed his eyes. A mustache covered his upper lip. He wore a black trench coat clenched around the waist by a belt and carried a valise.

 _Trés spy_ , Solo thought to himself.  
  
Two others strode in with Purnell, men much larger than he, obviously more brawn than brain. One carried a small suitcase. Waverly and Solo could only venture a guess what the suitcase contained.  
  
The two new goons stood back by the door, arms folded across their chests, while Purnell moved towards the center of the room.  
  
“Mornin’, Gents!” Purnell greeted with a Southern accent. “I see two of UNCLE’s head honchos are on my agenda today. Glad y’all decided to join us here on this glorious day.” He put down the valise and eyed Solo briefly before turning his attention to Alexander Waverly.  
  
As Purnell walked past Napoleon, the UNCLE agent lashed out with his legs, trying to ensnare the Thrush interrogator in a deadly head lock. To Solo’s surprise, Purnell anticipated the action and was prepared, sidestepping the powerful grasp with the grace of an athlete.  
  
Immediately, the two Thrush goons sprung into action and rushed Napoleon. Before they got within arms’ reach, Purnell withdrew his weapon, turned towards his men and pulled the trigger. Two soft ‘pops’ sounded and the two guards crumpled to the floor.  
  
Surprised by Purnell’s reaction, Alexander Waverly felt this was carrying on the ‘clean canvas’ concept too far. The old man kept trying to turn his head to see what was happening, his restraints making it difficult.  
  
Gregory Purnell holstered his gun and shook his head. “Idiots!” he muttered under his breath. The voice seemed to have changed.  
  
He turned towards Napoleon again, and as he neared, took off his sunglasses.  
  
“What the hell took you so long?” Solo asked as he released his grip on the pipes. He landed on the floor with a little less finesse than usual.  
  
“Morning traffic was horrendous, Napoleon. Need I say more?”  
  
Waverly forced his head around again. “Mr. Kuryakin?” The man he assumed was Gregory Purcell had walked towards him.  
  
“Yes, sir.” Illya Kuryakin began untying his boss. His partner joined him after shaking the numbness from his hands.  
  
“How did you manage to...”  
  
For expedience, Kuryakin cut cut off his boss mid-sentence. “UNCLE intercepted a Thrush radio transmission concerning your capture. Fortunately for us, Purnell is new to the organization and not too many people have laid eyes on him. All we knew about him was that he was short and from the South. We ‘rounded him off at the bend’ before I stepped in for him. I believe he’s at headquarters now.”  
  
The last bond was released. Waverly was about to get up, but Illya stopped him, wanting his boss and Napoleon to hear him before going any further.  
  
“Thrush plans to blow up the Empire State Building at exactly 4:30 this afternoon if we don’t close up shop.”  
  
“That much we know, Mr. Kuryakin,” Waverly said.  
  
“OK. I found out where they’ve planted the explosives and their location for detonation. Eight explosive devices have been placed throughout the building. Six nerve gas canisters have also been planted near the main ducts for the ventilation system. Fifteen minutes before the bombs explode, the gas will be released, rendering the majority of the people in the building either paralyzed or too incapacitated to move. Then they plan to set off the bombs. Here are the locations of all the devices and the codes necessary for disarming them...”  
  
Kuryakin passed the information on to his boss and partner. He gave them the layout of the plans, codes, and the off-site detonation location in midtown.  
  
“If you punch in the wrong code, the bombs and gas canisters will immediately detonate,” Illya warned. “Are you all set with the information?”  
  
Both Solo and Waverly nodded.  
  
“The code for the first floor bomb is 430NYC01, the fifteen floor bomb is 430NYC15, the 40th floor one is 430NYC40, etc. etc. How kind of them,” Solo said flatly, remarking at the over simplicity of the coding system. “The gas canisters need to be capped and sealed after punching in their codes, 415NYC...and so forth.”  
  
“Good!” Kuryakin said.  
  
“How on earth did you uncover all this in such a short amount of time?” Waverly asked.  
  
Illya smiled a little. “That’s why you pay me the big bucks, sir.”  
  
The Russian reached into his right coat pocket and handed Napoleon a set of car keys. “I left my car one block north of here outside of Sam’s Deli.”  
  
“You’re not coming with us?” Napoleon asked.  
  
“The transmission we intercepted indicates this may only be the tip of the iceberg. I want to find out more. You both go and take care of this little problem, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I have more information. I’m heading to the detonation site. I believe most of their data is housed there. Send a team and I’ll meet up with them.”  
  
“No, Mr. Kuryakin,” Waverly insisted. “I cannot allow you to go there without backup.”  
  
“There’s no time for backup, sir,” the Russian protested. “I don’t know their timeline and how quickly they plan to strike. I will gather any information I can and then we can destroy the facility.” Kuryakin reached into his breast pocket and brought out a small camera, raising his eyebrows.  
  
Waverly nodded, unfortunately understanding Kuryakin’s rationale. “Very well.”  
  
Illya opened his valise and gave both Waverly and Solo communicators and guns. “This place is poorly guarded. As a matter of fact, the only other living things on this floor... and I say that cautiously... are the three grunts outside the door. This is a regular office building which happens to have a perfect view of the Empire State Building. They obviously wanted you to witness their devastation first-handedly. And like I said, I honestly believe this is just the start.”  
  
Solo and Kuryakin dragged the two limp Thrush guards to the corner of the room before Napoleon returned to pipe where he previously hung. Illya clasped his hands low, in front of his knees, and offered his partner a lift to the pipe. Solo accepted.  
  
Kuryakin as Gregory Purnell opened the door. “I need the three of you in here immediately,” he drawled. “I believe these men from the U-N-C-L-E are being a bit awnery this mornin’.”  
  
Obediently, the three suited men entered the room only to be subdued with sleep darts.  
  
“Awnery?” Napoleon questioned as the three men from UNCLE left the room. He looked around the outer room for his shoes and the rest of his clothing, and any other equipment they had taken from him.  
  
Before they exited, Alexander Waverly was already on his communicator barking demands to underlings at his office. “And don’t forget a clean-up crew for several pieces of scum.”


	3. Chapter 3

Waverly’s wristwatch read 10:30 when he and Napoleon sped away in Kuryakin’s car. Disregarding UNCLE safety protocol, the two men traveled relatively unsecured through New York traffic back to headquarters. Expedience dictated they travel without waiting for backup or an escort.  
  
Safely ensconced in his office, Alexander Waverly took command of the situation with the control of a maniacal dictator. His adrenaline flowed.  
  
Napoleon quickly put together a team of fourteen agents and briefed them on the manner in which the bombs and gas canisters should be handled, along with the codes for disarming them. He desperately wished his partner was there. Kuryakin was an expert at disarming bombs - the best he had ever worked with.  
  
Waverly assigned another team to raid the detonation site to assist Kuryakin and then disable the installation.  
  
Well armed and informed, Solo and his men separately descended upon the Empire State Building as inconspicuously as possible, hoping not to raise undue alarm before absolutely necessary. Each carried a padded briefcase.  
  
UNCLE could not risk having the city’s bomb squad called in to evacuate the building. This would take too much time and inform too many people. But they also could not risk having the building occupied while they worked. Solo decided the best way to clear the building was to activate the fire alarm system, causing an immediate evacuation.  
  
Having done his homework, Napoleon knew where the smoke detectors were, and made his first stop in building the ground floor’s main sensor. Like clockwork, his team called in as soon as they reached their assigned sites. Once all the men were in position, Solo lit a small wad of newspaper and waved the smoldering mass under the smoke detector. Seconds later, alarms sounded and the sprinklers activated throughout the building. The evacuation began immediately.  
  
The six gas canisters were just where Kuryakin had indicated, attached to the largest ventilation ducts. The eight bombs were also in their indicated positions; six were placed in utility closets on the upper floors, one was next to electrical control panels, and the final one attached to telephone line panel. The agents from UNCLE shuddered at the prospect of the Empire State Building being leveled, or if their efforts failed.  
  
Napoleon instructed his team to wait until the building had been evacuated, guestimating approximately 15 minutes for the people on the uppermost floors who needed to hoof it down 102 storeys without the benefit of an elevator.  
  
“Begin now,” Solo finally announced into his communicator, alerting the rest of his team to begin disarming the gas canisters and explosives.  
  
The sounds of fire engines and rescue teams began filtering through the streets, becoming increasingly louder as they neared. The agents had to work quickly.  
  
Napoleon carefully unscrewed the coverplate. He cursed under his breath when he saw a 10-digit keypad attached to the device. _Of all the times to use the latest technology!_ he muttered to himself. The keypad was based on the newly-designed Bell Telephone Princess phones, rapidly replacing the rotary models. Only the Thrush keypads did not have the corresponding letters engraved on the buttons.  
  
The ‘430’ and ‘415’ were not the problem, nor was the floor designation, but figuring out the corresponding numbers for NYC would waste of precious time.  
  
Solo mentally went over the alphabetical breakdown and what he felt were their positions on the buttons.  
  
“I believe the numbers for ‘NYC’ would be ‘581’,” Solo said to the other agents in the team. “Are we in agreement?”  
  
“Sounds good,” came one response  
  
“I guess. I’m not familiar with that type of phone yet,” came another.  
  
“Wait!” a third voice alerted. “The number ‘1’ has no letter value, nor does ‘0’. The code for ‘NYC’ should be ‘692’.”  
  
“Are you sure?” Napoleon asked.  
  
“I have a push-button phone at home, and ...” the third voice continued.  
  
Solo interrupted him. “I’ll take your word for it. Thanks. ‘415692’ plus your floor designation for the gas canisters and ‘430692’ plus your floor designation for the bombs. Are we all set, gentlemen?”  
  
An affirmative was heard from each and in the matter of seconds all fourteen devices were disarmed. Napoleon breathed a sigh of relief when the building remained silent. Nothing exploded.  
  
The devices were carefully placed in the padded briefcases each agent brought with them. By the time they exited their sites, police and firemen were already milling around the building.  
  
“Didn’t you hear the alarm? You need to evacuate the building IMMEDIATELY!” one of the firemen yelled at Napoleon.  
  
“Sorry,” the agent answered meekly. “I needed to gather a few important documents... couldn’t dare leave them behind to burn, you know.”  
  
“Get outta here!” were the parting words as Napoleon headed towards the stairs.  
  
He and his team left the building individually and headed back to headquarters via different routes. Their gas canisters and explosives were taken to the munitions lab for examination and then proper disposal.

  
  
* * * * *

  
“Any word from the team dispatched to the detonation site?” Napoleon asked his boss as he walked through Waverly’s office door. Before entering, the CEA checked his watch - not quite 4:30 pm. He smiled inwardly knowing that his organization had just saved New York from a major disaster.  
  
Almost 12 long hours had passed since being awakened by his communicator pen.  
  
The Section One Chief spun his swivel chair around and looked up, still clutching the telephone receiver in his hand. His eyes reflected his anger.  
  
“Kuryakin’s directions were extremely precise. The site in Brooklyn was relatively easy to find. Thrush must have known their plan was compromised when the bombs and gas canisters were disabled, because they closed up shop and abandoned ship.” Waverly’s words where angrier than usual.  
  
The CEA stood by his boss’ desk. “Did our team find anything?”  
  
“Nothing at all. The site was deserted, their notes and files gone, and their equipment destroyed.”  
  
“I guess it’s a small price to pay, Mr. Waverly,” Solo reasoned. “At least the Empire State Building is standing. If Thrush had their way, it would have been reduced to rubble by now.” Napoleon finally sat down. His adrenaline surge had worn off and the fatigue of missing several prime hours of sleep and a few meals was settling in. He hoped it wasn’t apparent. “Have you heard from Illya? He should have reported.”  
  
“’Should have’ is correct, Mr. Solo. We haven’t heard a word from him. He doesn’t answer his communicator and there was no trace of him at the detonation site.”  
  
Napoleon stood up again.  
  
“Nothing at all?”  
  
“Nothing,” Waverly reiterated. “Thrush did a superb job of sterilizing the place. Our agents went over it with a fine toothed comb and came up completely empty-handed. Here are the reports...” The Section One chief slid a folder towards Napoleon. “...please feel free to go over them yourself. I personally found nothing indicating that Mr. Kuryakin sabotaged the installation... or that he had even been there at all. Perhaps a fresh set of eyes could pick up on something I missed.”  
  
Solo eyed his boss. The old man misses nothing. This was merely a gesture to appease Napoleon’s curiosity.  
  
The CEA flipped through a series of photographs showing empty desks, file cabinets, and demolished electronics equipment. A few stray coffee cups littered an otherwise uncluttered work area. The written report only verified with the visuals showed - everything had been removed.  
  
Napoleon examined the photos further, checking each square inch of the images with scrutiny. He realized this had already been done by agents in the intelligence department and then personally by Waverly himself, but he had a hunch...  
  
Then something caught Solo’s attention. Something small and partially hidden, peeking out from behind the leg of a desk. He immediately looked up and asked for a magnifying glass. Waverly handed him one.  
  
The old man leaned forward to get a better look at what Solo had found. Napoleon brought the photo and the magnifying glass around to his boss.  
  
“Here...” Napoleon pointed to the spot behind the desk’s leg. What looked like a small film cartridge was barely evident. “Do you see it? It’s one of ours. I can identify the shape. Illya designed it personally to fit into that small camera he developed.”  
  
Waverly took a closer look and nodded. “How the hell did we miss it?”  
  
“Illya must have been photographing the documents before he was caught. Thrush probably destroyed the film, and its canister must have fallen in the process... unless he purposely planted it there.” Napoleon took a deep breath. “When’s the last time you tried reaching him?”  
  
“Just before you came in, Mr. Solo. He doesn’t respond and as of yet, there have been no distress signals generated. On top of that, they’ve removed or disabled all the tracking devices in Mr. Kuryakin’s possession. Our intelligence department does not indicate any other Thrush activity in the vicinity, so if they so benevolently let him live, he could be anywhere by now.” Waverly huffed, obviously stressed. “So unless you have a crystal ball, we’re clueless as to Mr. Kuryakin’s whereabouts.”  
  


* * * * *

From the helicopter, Napoleon Solo kept his eye on the thermal imaging screen as they flew over the woods. Besides looking for Illya, the agents in the helicopter were seeking out other people who may be hiding in wait for the UNCLE agents. The woods in the southern part of Connecticut were quiet this night.  
  
A small flashing orange dot was the signal coming from Kuryakin’s communicator. It was a little more than half an hour ago that it activated. As they neared, a green image, hopefully Illya, should illuminate on the screen. The only creatures glowing green from below were of the four-legged variety, primarily deer.  
  
“Any way to crank up this thing?” Solo yelled above the beating of the blades to Conor Mahaney, the coptor’s pilot. “It’s now showing much.”  
  
“We’re almost at the point of his distress signal,” Mahaney yelled back. “I’ll sweep this bird down as low as possible.”  
  
Napoleon knew the reality indicated by the absence of Kuryakin’s thermal image. Illya’s communicator could have been activated and dropped in the woods as a Thrush calling card. Or it could be a trap. Or it could reveal a stone-cold dead Russian.  
  
As the pilot neared the site of the distress call, a faint green image of a prone person began to illuminate the screen, the orange symbol flashing within it.  
  
“There he is!” Napoleon shouted, pointing downward to the approximate area over the tops of the trees.

* * * * *  
  


_Sirens blasted while the three-inch thick steel doors throughout the building magnetically sealed. Kuryakin heard the sirens and immediately began seeking routes of escape. There were none.  
  
The only entrance to the room, the door, was secured from the outside and impenetrable. He looked around for ductwork. The duct grating had been cut out of the metal wall, forming a seamless partition with no means of removal.  
  
The room was windowless.  
  
Illya decided to finish photographing as many files as possible before the Thrush guards entered his room.  
  
The blond agent had done a superb job of stealing himself into the midtown building Thrush was occupying. The information he garnered through the intercepted communiqué had given him the exact location of the satrapy, and his extraordinary skills got him into the building undetected. He remained unnoticed, copying files and important data housed in the installation, until he unknowingly tripped an alarm hidden within the final file cabinet he opened.  
  
_Weight sensitive _, he mumbled to himself._ Damn! _  
  
The act of removing several files was enough to activate the system.  
  
“Well, look who we have here!” commented the Thrushman as he lead his pack of seven into the room.  
  
“I’ve rather been expecting you, Jarod,” Kuryakin said nonchalantly while taking a few last photos._  
  


Conor Mahaney hovered for a moment, double checking the monitor. He nodded and looked around for a safe spot to land. What appeared to be small clearing lay about three hundred yards north of the distress signal.  
  
“You’ll need this tracking device so I can guide you to Kuryakin,” the pilot said, handing a small coin-sized metal disk to Solo. “Unfortunately, the thermal device’s monitor is stationary. Head south about three hundred yards. I’ll guide you from the helicopter. You’ll also need these...” The pilot handed Solo and the other two agents, John Meyers and Lawrence Abernathy, high powered lanterns. “...there’s no moon out tonight and it gets mighty dark in the woods.”  
  
Solo nodded, taking the disk and a lantern. The other men followed suit. They then drew their guns and headed south, into the woods.  
  
They kept the lanterns off, acclimating their eyes and ears to the wood’s natural noises. It was quiet with the hushed nocturnal forestial sounds. The wind flowing through the leaves still clinging to the trees’ limbs. The crunching of the autumn leaves beneath their feet. The snapping of an occasional branch which lay on the ground. Nothing out of the ordinary.  
  
The temperature had dropped slightly since leaving New York. The three agents zipped their windbreakers against the cool night air.  
  
“How much further?” Napoleon asked into his communicator.  
  
“Not far, Napoleon,” the pilot responded. “Maybe twenty five yards. Go slightly to your right...good. The site is dead ahead.”  
  
“Bad choice of words,” Solo mumbled into his pen.  
  


* * * * *

_Jarod Baxter, the man leading the charge into the file room, rushed Kuryakin.  
  
Illya wasted no time initiating his defense. Before Baxter got close enough to lay a hand on the agent, Kuryakin ducked out of his path and grabbed him from behind, twisting the two of them to face the rest of the Thrush men. Jarod Baxter was caught in one of Illya’s deadly headlocks.  
  
“Drop your weapons or I’ll break his neck!” the Russian hissed.  
  
No one moved.  
  
Illya visibly tightened his grip on Baxter for emphasis. “Now!”  
  
In what looked like a move to surrender, the seven Thrush men began to lower their weapons. Then, almost simultaneously, they raised the guns again and a single shot sounded.  
  
Kuryakin froze for a split second, awaiting the impact of the bullet which never came.  
  
Instead, Jarod Baxter’s body slumped in his arms. By the time Thrush’s actions registered in Illya’s brain, the remaining men bolted towards him.  
  
Instinctively, the Russian agent yanked a button off his white shirt and tossed it towards the seven. Kuryakin backed away and turned slightly, shielding his face from the explosion he knew would follow. The three men heading the charge were stopped in their tracks, felled by the exploding button.  
  
It was only the matter of seconds before the remaining Thrush men were upon him. The Russian stood his ground, immediately felling one with a roundhouse kick and grabbing another around the neck as a shield. His UNCLE special was withdrawn and aimed at the Thrush man’s head.  
  
The other two stood back and aimed their guns at Illya.  
  
“Looks like we have a predicament here,” Kuryakin said as he backed towards the steel door. “Surely you’re not going to shoot another one of your buddies.”  
  
One of the Thrush men, tall and skinny, grinned before his lip curled into a snarl. Without a word, he squeezed the trigger of his gun and fired a shot into Illya’s captive. Another lifeless body slumped in the agent's arms.  
  
Illya released his grasp of the man and raised his arms in surrender. “Keep this up, boys, and you save _ **_us_ ** _the work of eliminating Thrush.”  
  
Tall and Skinny motioned to the door with his gun. Illya nodded, hands still raised, and walked towards the exit. The other guard followed.  
  
“Perhaps we can come to some sort of understanding here,” Illya reasoned as he walked. He stopped at the door and turned slightly, his hands still in the air.  
  
“Keep walking!” Tall and Skinny ordered.  
  
Kuryakin shrugged his shoulders and slowly pivoted back towards the door. While doing so, he flexed the muscles in his right forearm, releasing the handle of a blade into the palm of his hand. Continuing with his pivot, he swiftly turned around again to face his captors, stabbing Tall and Skinny in the abdomen before the other guard realized what he was doing.  
  
Illya never had the chance to finish his assault. The steel door slid open again and behind it came the Thrush reinforcements, who overpowered the UNCLE agent immediately._

  
  
* * * * *

Napoleon and his team traveled what they assumed was the twenty five yards the pilot had indicated.  
  
“Any sign of him?” the pilot asked via Napoleon’s communicator.  
  
The lanterns were switched on, brightening the immediate area.  
  
“None,” Solo responded.  
  
“Well, according to my imaging device, you’re right on the money, Napoleon.”  
  
Napoleon bounced lightly on his feet. The ground felt soft beneath the leaves. He stepped back and bounced again. This time, the ground was firmer.  
  
“Damn!” Solo placed the communicator in his jacket pocket and the lantern on the ground and fell to his knees, clawing at the ground where he stood seconds ago. “He must be buried. No wonder the signal was so dim.”  
  
The three UNCLE agents dug into the wet leaves and the cool soil beneath them. Fortunately, the dirt was loosely packed, making their task a little easier.  
  
Abernathy found Illya’s communicator.  
  
“Crush it!” Napoleon demanded. “If Thrush knows how to send out a distress signal, they may have altered it or changed the wavelength to track us.”  
  
Napoleon stopped every few seconds and reached down into the soil, hoping to feel some part of his partner’s body. Finally his hand touched what felt like an arm. It was unresponsive to his touch.  
  


* * * * *

_A battered, groggy Illya Kuryakin was dragged to the control room where he was met by an irate Warren Cianfrani, head of operations of the small, but lethal, Thrush satrapy. The Russian bore a gash on his forehead that still bled, staining his suit jacket and white shirt, and his hands had been cuffed behind his back. His squinting eyes bore the evidence of his treatment at the hands of the Thrush guards.  
  
Thrush was in the process of abandoning ship. Guards, technicians, supervisors were dismantling equipment, cleaning out file cabinets, boxing pertinent information, and destroying anything they did not plan on taking with them. Tension was high.  
  
“Do you have any idea what you have done?” Cianfrani screamed at Illya. He rushed to the guards who still secured their quarry.  
  
“Saved thousands of lives?” the Russian responded slowly.  
  
“Months of planning went just down the drain!”  
  
Although stiff and sore and slightly disoriented, Kuryakin maintained a calm facade.  
  
“Obviously poor planning on your part, Cianfrani. Did you think we wouldn’t notice our chief was missing?” Illya smirked. “And did you honestly think we wouldn’t track him down?”  
  
A small explosion shook the room as one of the computer systems was demolished. Smoke rose from the control panel after the sparks ceased.  
  
Warren Cianfrani grabbed Kuryakin’s collar and pulled him face to face. “This is all your fault!”  
  
Illya’s face bore no indication of his next move. While in close proximity to Cianfrani, he smashed his forehead into the Thrushman’s nose while simultaneously kneeing him in the groin.  
  
The guards reacted immediately and grabbed the Russian agent. Using their hold as support, Illya raised his legs and kicked Cianfrani squarely in the face, knocking him backwards and unconscious.  
  
It only took seconds for Kuryakin to be wrestled to the ground._

* * * * *

“OK,” Napoleon shouted as he continued digging. “Fortunately, he’s not far down. Unfortunately, he doesn’t seem to be moving.”  
  
It didn’t take long to clear the majority of dirt off Kuryakin. Thrush had left him lying on his left side in a shallow grave, no more than 3 feet deep. He was unconscious, unmoving. His left wrist and ankles had been hog-tied from behind. In what appeared to be an attempt to escape, Illya had freed his right arm and raised it upwards apparently trying to claw his way to freedom. The blade of a hidden knife protruded from the rear of his left heel and had successfully sawed away the majority of rope binding his feet.  
  
But, his attempts at escape were obviously futile. The lack of oxygen prevailed, rendering the agent unconscious.  
  
The agents brought the lanterns to the ridge around the hole in the ground. Damp soil still covered parts of his legs, but Illya’s head and upper body were freed. Ugly, dirt-caked gashs poked from his face and right temple. His clothing was torn and blood-stained.  
  


_Illya awoke in what looked like a semi-deserted warehouse. The air was musty and damp. Cool. Murky with muted darkness. Light beaming in from the perimeters of blackened windows and solid doors was the only source of illumination. Meager as it was, it did allow Kuryakin to give his surroundings a cursory scanning.  
  
He had been seated upright in a solid wooden chair, his ankles held shackled securely to the legs of the chair and his wrists restrained on the table in front of him. He tried shifting his weight to test the security of the chair. It, as well as the table, had been bolted to the floor.  
  
The restraints were solid, secure, offering him little movement.  
  
His body ached. After being downed in the control room, the Thrush guards took pleasure in subduing him, partially as retaliation for assaulting their boss, but primarily satisfying their sadistic natures. He flexed muscles and moved the best he could, determining that nothing was direly wrong. He’d sustained worse in his few short years with the Command. He felt the superficial cuts and bruises, which would probably go relatively unnoticed after a good hot bath and a few days of “R&R.”  
  
It was silent in the room. He strained his ears to hear any sounds at all, whether they be human or background noise giving him some indication as to his whereabouts. Nothing, no clues. The only thing he heard was the sound of his own breathing, a bit more labored than usual.  
  
He had obviously been removed from the Thrush command post. Illya chuckled to himself. The UNCLE back-up team must have made their assault on the satrapy. Unfortunately, Cianfrani and his men must have been long gone by the time the team had arrived.  
  
Not a soul kept watch over him. The agent felt there may have been surveillance monitoring, but even that he doubted. The surroundings were too crude, and besides, they had him so well secured, Thrush was assured of him being there when they returned.  
  
And return they did. A short while later the door opened, causing a blaring beam of light to spill into the cavernous warehouse. The light was so intense that it silhouetted the Thrush entourage entering the room, preventing Illya from immediately identifying any of his opponents. In the backlit door, Illya did see that the all but one wore a guard’s uniform and each man entering carried a weapon.  
  
The only non-uniformed man advanced the quickest. As he neared, Illya recognized him as Warren Cianfrani.  
  
Cianfrani’s head turned to the side. “Turn on the damned lights!” he barked to one of his guards. Obediently, the one nearest the breaker trotted over the pulled the switch. A hum preceded the buzz and flickering of the fluorescent bulbs being lit.  
  
As the room illuminated, Illya was better able to assess his circumstances. He signed inwardly - it was not promising. He was vastly outnumbered, his physical condition somewhat compromised, and at the moment, somewhat incapacitated.  
  
Warren Cianfrani turned his attention to the Russian. The Thrushman’s face looked like it had been through the war. His eye sockets bore the purplish hues of someone who had just had his nose broken, along with the facial cuts associated with having one’s feet slammed into it.  
  
Kuryakin glared at him silently, hoping his air of defiance would simulate the stamina he lacked at the moment._   
  


Napoleon carefully stepped into the shallow grave to get a closer look at his partner and check for a pulse. After probing a few spots on his partner’s neck, he finally found the carotid artery and the weak pulse it emitted.  
  
“It’s all right, Illya,” Solo said softly, brushing more dirt off his partner’s face. No response.  
  
Solo brought a lantern a little closer and began untying his partner. It only took a few seconds to remove the remaining ropes from Kuryakin’s wrist and ankles.  
  
Illya’s left hand was swollen to almost twice its normal size. Napoleon felt the fingers; several were broken. After a quick assessment of Illya’s chest, back, and legs, Solo deemed it safe to move his partner.

  
  


_The guards stood back, allowing their boss to become the lone interrogator.  
  
Cianfrani started by grabbing a fistful of Kuryakin’s hair and yanking his head back. “How did you get the information about our operation?”  
  
A slight chuckle came from the Russian. “A little bird told me?” he responded sheepishly.  
  
Still grasping Kuryakin’s hair, Cianfrani pushed the agent’s head forward and drove his head into the table. Illya gasped, seeing stars. Before the stars settled, his head was once again jerked upward. His vision began to fade.  
  
“And where have you taken Gregory Purnell?” Cianfrani snapped.  
  
“Who?”  
  
“Don’t play coy, Kuryakin!” The Thrush boss tighten the grasp on Illya’s hair, pulling his head further back.  
  
The Russian’s mouth opened, gasping. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he managed to rasp.  
  
For the next half hour, Cianfrani and his men tried unsuccessfully to get their answers. Illya maintained his stubborn demeanor and refused to give them the information they wanted. The Thrushmen carried out their interrogation with ferocity, beating the UNCLE agent almost senseless.  
  
Cianfrani finally held out his hand. One of the guards, the one carrying a small case with several vials of milky white fluid and syringes, sprung to attention. He handed his boss the necessary implements for the next phase of the interrogation.  
  
“Well, Mr. Kuryakin,” Cianfrani sighed, “when all else fails, we’ll try drugs.”  
  
Illya heard a groan escape his throat as a dose of Lord-knows-what was injected into a vein._

The three UNCLE agents positioned themselves around Kuryakin and carefully began lifting him out of the ditch.  
  
The glint of a bared wire partially buried beneath the soil caught Napoleon’s attention a fraction of a second too late.  
  
Before the CEA could verbalize the word “Stop!” the wire, deftly woven through several eyelets of Illya’s shoes, pulled from its detonator. The agents could feel the wire’s slight resistance and instinctively knew they had set off some sort of device.  
  
Without skipping a beat, they pulled Kuryakin free of the ditch, preparing to leave the scene post-haste.  
  
The hairs on the nape of Solo’s neck stood on edge as his internal warning system sensed danger. An eerie silence enveloped them.  
  
Then an incendiary device activated.  
  
A loud “Poomph!” preceded the rush of hot air, which preceded a ring of fire surrounding them. In a flash, they were trapped within a blazing wall of flame and heat, reaching ten feet up from the ground, drawing closer to them as the seconds ticked by. The airless void created by the fire began to rob their lungs of precious oxygen.  
  
Napoleon took off his jacket and wrapped it around Illya’s face and head before hoisting the unconscious agent over his shoulder. He and the other agents were about to run through the fire when they heard the Conor Mahaney’s voice order them to stand back.  
  
In only seconds the pilot had doused a small path in the flames with the fire extinguisher he kept on board his helicopter. The agents ran through the opening, escaping the ravages of the encroaching blaze.  
  
Conor stayed behind a very short while to douse the remaining flames, averting a major forrest fire. By the time he returned to his helicopter, the three agents and Illya were already on board, preparing for take-off.  
  
Napoleon had laid Illya on a low gurney and covered him with a blanket. The CEA found a tank of oxygen and fastened its mask around Kuryakin’s face. He and his two agents were in the process of securing safety belts around the unconscious agent when Mahaney returned.  
  
A little color began returning to the Russian’s cheeks and lips.  
  
The pilot wasted no time in getting the chopper off the ground and back to headquarters.

In slightly more than half an hour, the helicopter landed on UNCLE’s heliport.  
  
Kuryakin was still out like a light when they wheeled his gurney into Medical. Napoleon had tried repeatedly to revive his partner during the flight, but his attempts were unsuccessful. Solo did another check of Illya’s medical condition, finding a series of deep welts and bruises on his chest, back and limbs, in addition to several injection sites on his forearms buried beneath a layer of dirt and caked-on mud. His face was swollen and purpled from Thrush’s less than hospitable treatment.  
  
The three UNCLE agents stood silently in the waiting area while Illya was rolled into the emergency room for immediate attention. Napoleon followed in the medical staff’s footsteps, hoping to gain access to the examination area. He was stopped, as usual, at the doorway. The doctor on duty tonight was Jonas Fine.  
  
“Can’t blame a guy for trying,” he sighed, shrugging and smiling sheepishly to John Meyers and Lawrence Abernathy.  
  
“I don’t know about you,” Meyers said, turning on his heels and aiming towards the exit, “but I’m filthy and hungry. Kuryakin’s going to be occupied for awhile, so I’m going to get cleaned up and grab a bite to eat.” He looked to Napoleon almost for permission. Solo nodded and motioned for him to leave. John Meyers passed through the pneumatic doors and waved good-bye.  
  
Abernathy followed. “Me, too. See you later, Napoleon.”  
  
Napoleon stood solo in the waiting room, dirt and dried mud still falling from him. He felt as completely helpless as he always did after bringing in his partner. Realizing that no degree of charm or bullying would gain him access to the exam room, the CEA resigned himself to the indeterminable wait.  
  
He paced at first, trying to work off the post-mission stress. The lines between feeling overstimulated and fatigued were becoming blurred. Napoleon wasn’t sure whether he felt like zooming about or collapsing; all he knew was that he was in limbo.  
  
It had been an extremely long day with only a scant hour or two sleep the previous night. Almost 24 stressful hours straight. It felt like it was the middle of the night. Solo checked his watch - almost 3:30 am. He smiled inwardly; it was the middle of the night.  
  
After several fruitless minutes, he realized his time could be better spent showering and getting into clean clothing. Or getting a jump start on his post-mission paperwork. He smirked to himself - no, he was too wired to write a coherent report at the moment, and in all honestly, he didn’t care a rat’s ass about it. It’ll wait. The shower made sense. Maybe even getting a little food into his belly as well.  
  
Napoleon turned to leave the waiting room when he heard the sound of a door opening behind him.  
  


_Kuryakin’s wrists were tightly secured from behind. A blackout hood covered his head. Throughout the trip, Illya lay on the floor of a van, trying to make sense of where he was being taken. Nothing seemed familiar. His stomach began to rebel, and the agent fought the continual nausea which threatened to bring up the bile churning in his gut.  
  
The trip from the warehouse to wherever they were taking him lasted the better part of an hour, Kuryakin assumed. He was at a loss. There was no sense of time or place, he had no idea whether it was day or night. The drugs blurred his sense of reality. Ironically, the drugs blurred his senses to the point which he felt very little fear or dread.  
  
At the end of the trip, Kuryakin was carelessly pulled from the van and forcibly dragged along a dirt path. The Russian agent was unable to walk on his own. Drugged, weak, sore from head to toe, Illya could not make the trek from the Thrush van unassisted.  
  
He shivered. The cool October air filtered through the fabric of his shirt and trousers as though they weren’t covering his body. He desperately wanted to draw his arms across his chest for warmth.  
  
The wrist restraints and hood remained. Rough hands dragged him through what felt like the woods. The ground was soft and a little slippery beneath his feet, the air cool and moist.  
  
Several moments after leaving the van, the Thrush group stopped. Illya was held upright while one of the men removed his hood. The cool air felt good on his face and revived him a little... just enough to recognize that the shallow ditch by his feet was about to become his grave.  
  
“I guess this is it, Mr. Kuryakin,” Warren Cianfrani smirked. “Your last few moments of precious life. Don’t worry, your comrades at UNCLE will find your body. I’ll make sure of that!”  
  
Cianfrani held up Illya’s communicator.  
  
“We’re going to activate the distress signal and bury this with you. Your friends, of course, will rush to your aid, only to find you dead.” Cianfrani laughed. “Pity. But all is not wasted. We plan to have your rescuers join you in the great Hereafter,” the Thrushman winked, “if you catch my drift.”  
  
Kuryakin struggled weakly against the men holding him up. He lacked the strength and coordination to do anything effective. Several of the guards snickered at his meager attempt to overcome them.  
  
Suddenly, Illya felt a blow to the back of his knees. His body crumpled to the ground and his ankles were tightly tied with a length of rope. After a few tugs to insure its hold, the ends of the rope were knotted to the wrist restraints.  
  
Several of the Thrushmen pushed him into the shallow grave. The agent tumbled into the three-foot deep ditch, landing on his left side.  
  
One of them stepped into the ditch and momentarily and adjusted something on Illya’s shoes. Kuryakin thought it odd that he would be doing something as absurd as tying the laces. Then he saw the man leave the ditch and unroll string or wire, which was run along the ground to ... to ... damn! He was out of Kuryakin’s line of vision.  
  
Hog-tied and helpless, he felt the increasing weight of dirt as shovelsful of soil were dumped on him.  
  
Illya’s instincts kicked in despite his groggy condition. He immediately began working the ropes. His left hand throbbed incessantly. Oh yes - he remembered - Cianfrani had broken several fingers with a crowbar.  
  
It became increasing more difficult to breathe as the grave filled with dirt. Kuryakin tucked his face into his shoulder and raised his head slightly to create the air pocket which might be his only salvation.  
  
The agent rubbed his heels together, hoping to trigger the knife concealed in his left shoe, hoping that Thrush hadn’t already removed it. He felt the spring release and allowed himself the assurance of one small victory.  
  
He adeptly worked the blade into the ropes, feeling them loosen slightly, but just enough to free his right hand. Illya maneuvered his hand and arm upward, trying to break through to the surface for more oxygen. Each time he made a little headway, the soil filled in the gap he had just created.  
  
All the while, dizziness was increasing and his concentration was slipping. Breathing was practically impossible, reduced to short gasps to keep himself from losing unconsciousness.  
  
Illya continued grasping upwards. He had to make it; failure was not an option at this point. The safety and security of thousands of innocents was at stake, and only he held the information which could prevent the intended disasters.  
  
Little by little, the agent’s motions slowed with fatigue and lack of oxygen, but sheer grit and and determination kept him grappling for the surface.  
  
Finally, he lost the battle._

“Mr. Solo!” Dr. Fine’s voice bellowed. “Good! You’re still here!”  
  
Without skipping a beat, Napoleon turned back around to face the doctor. “How is he?”  
  
“He just woke up and demanded to talk to you and Mr. Waverly. He refused to let me finish treating him.”  
  
Napoleon checked his watch again. 3:45. _That was quick_ , he thought. He nodded and followed Dr. Fine into the examination area.  
  
“We barely got started when he began regaining consciousness,” the doctor explained. “He became quite adamant about seeing you, and you know how he gets when...”  
  
Solo walked through the doors of the medical unit and nodded again, more intent on seeing his partner than listening to the doctor jabber on. Dr. Fine finally grabbed the CEA’s arm when he assumed his words were falling on deaf ears.  
  
“Napoleon...” he continued, stopping the agent momentarily. He felt fortunate that the CEA didn’t ball up his fist and threaten to flatten him. “Have you heard a word I said?”  
  
“Yes,” Solo replied matter-of-factly. “He’d been drugged with some unknown substance and you haven’t been able to either identify or counteract it. He’s in a lot of pain. You cannot alleviate his discomfort because you’re afraid of contraindications with the other drugs and he refuses sedation.”  
  
The doctor sighed. He should have known better than to doubt Napoleon’s powers of observation. “I’ve already contacted Mr. Waverly. Try not to take too long. I need to clean him up and take care of him sometime in the near future.”  
  
Illya was struggling to sit up when Napoleon entered the exam area. The sheet Dr. Fine had covered him was slipping, leaving the Russian nude from the waist up. Napoleon assumed the rest of his clothing had been removed as well. The bright, harsh lighting in the room accentuated the welts and bruises, forming a knot in Solo’s gut as he watched Illya struggle to get somewhat comfortable.  
  
Dirt still covered the majority of his body, caked in his hair. The only clean area Napoleon observed was his right forearm where an IV line had been inserted before Illya woke.  
  
“Let me help you,” Solo offered his young partner.  
  
Illya shook his head ‘no’ before settling against the pillows. The strained expression on his face signaled his pain. He did not want to be touched. Although this is by far not the worst he’d ever felt, his treatment at Thrush’s hands left him horribly weak, lightheaded, and sore. Every inch of him seemed to hurt.  
  
“Mr. Waverly will be here momentarily,” Napoleon said softly. “What’s up?”  
  
“I uncovered more information about UNCLE targets,” the Russian answered slowly, trying to disguise his level of distress. He paused. “Can you raise this thing up?”  
  
Napoleon nodded. At the moment, his partner looked extremely feeble lying flat on the wide gurney. This was not the image he cared to portray to his boss.  
  
Solo raised the head of the gurney and helped Illya into a more comfortable position. Once Kuryakin was settled, Napoleon found a hospital gown, but the Russian agent refused to slip it on. He couldn’t fathom anything else against his skin and gingerly raised the sheet up to cover himself as much as possible.  
  
After a moment of laying still, Illya felt he would be more comfortable resting on his right side. Napoleon was helping him shift positions when their boss walked in.  
  
Alexander Waverly hurried over to the gurney. All he needed was one look at the Russian agent to know something was wrong.  
  
“You haven’t been given anything for that pain?” he asked, gently lifting the sheet to see how badly Kuryakin was injured.  
  
Illya quickly sucked in air and his body stiffened as the old man slid the fabric off his shoulder. He tightly shut his eyes and tried to lay still, waiting for this invasion to end.  
  
Waverly briefly observed the injured body, Kuryakin’s right hand cradling the broken left fingers, the distress he was causing.  
  
The UNCLE Chief lowered the sheet and reached for the wall telephone to picked up the receiver, but Napoleon stopped him.  
  
“Thrush had drugged him throughout the day and Dr. Fine is hesitant to administer anything until he knows what’s been pumped into Illya’s body,” Solo informed his boss. “He’s already running tests.”  
  
The old man somberly nodded and replaced the receiver on its base. He dragged a chair next to Illya’s gurney and sat down, maintaining eye level with his Russian agent. “I assume your information is urgent. What do you have to report, Mr. Kuryakin.”  
  
“There are twelve more terroristic Thrush plots in place,” Illya began slowly, trying to control any hint of pain in his voice. “Worldwide. I was photographing documents when I was caught.”  
  
“Do you have the films?” Napoleon asked.  
  
Illya nodded. “In the heel of my right shoe.”  
  
The head of Section One abruptly stood and reached for the telephone. He dialed an extension, snapped a few curt orders, then returned to his seat.  
  
“Is all the information there?” Waverly asked next.  
  
“Unfortunately, no.” Illya shifted his weight slightly, trying for a more comfortable position. “I gave up one roll as a consolation prize.”  
  
Solo nodded, understanding that his partner’s interrogation had gotten so severe that revealing the whereabouts of that particular film kept him alive a bit longer.  
  
“But,” Illya smiled a little, “there was only a small amount of data on the film I gave up and I memorized its contents.”  
  
The door to the exam room slid open and a lab technician entered. Alexander Waverly nodded towards Kuryakin’s right shoe, which the tech immediately picked up and took with him for processing.  
  
Illya Kuryakin spent the next twenty minutes dictating the contents of the lost film to his partner and Mr. Waverly, outlining how Thrush planned to kidnapped the remaining Section One Chiefs, along with several other high-ranking officials, and bring UNCLE to its knees by simultaneously holding them hostage until they relinquished control of their headquarters. Or else.  
  
Or else the precisely timed explosives strategically placed throughout the world would be detonated one-by-one, destroying heavily populated landmarks at precise intervals until ...unless... all the heads of UNCLE surrendered their headquarters to Thrush.  
  
The Empire State Building incident was not an isolated one, merely a antecedent of events to come.  
  
The Russian had, in his recollection, the exact locations of the bombs and their scheduled detonations times, along with the plans to kidnap the UNCLE chiefs.  
  
“Are you completely sure about all this?” the old man asked after the information was passed on, eyeing Illya cautiously. He hoped Kuryakin’s condition was not so compromised that the information was incorrect.  
  
“Yes, sir. Completely,” Illya assured him. He had begun sweating profusely, his voice cracking slightly with the pain.  
  
Alexander Waverly immediately stood up to leave. “Very well, Mr. Kuryakin. We’ll get on this right away.” Without another word, the Chief left the room.  
  
Napoleon stayed behind, knowing that he was about to be kicked out again.  
  
Almost before the pneumatic door closed completely, it reopened and Dr. Fine entered. Another doctor, three nurses and two orderlies followed.  
  
“Good bye, Mr. Solo,” Dr. Fine ordered while he headed towards Illya.  
  
Napoleon stood for a moment, watching the medical team work like a well-oiled machine. His partner fussed a little initially, but finally succumbed to the medical team’s ministrations, allowing them to sedate him. The fussing stopped.  
  
Dr. Fine finally turned around. “Please wait outside, Napoleon.”  
  
Too tired at this point to raise an objection, Napoleon quietly nodded and walked toward the door. He checked his watch. A little after 4:30. 24 hours after his stressful day began.  
  
“I’ll be returning him to room 6,” a more compassionate Dr. Fine sighed. “There are two beds in there, and I requested some clean scrubs be laid out for you on the chair. Take a shower and get some sleep. We’re gonna be a while.”  
  
“Thanks,” Solo mumbled as he turned to leave.  
  
“And while you’re at it,” Dr. Fine continued while working on Kuryakin, “get something to eat. You’re beginning to look gaunt.”  
  


* * * * *

The nurses did not seem to notice that they roused Napoleon from a sound sleep when they guided Illya Kuryakin’s gurney into Room 6. Instinctively, the CEA rolled off the bed to safety while reaching under the pillow for his UNCLE Special.  
  
In the scant seconds it took him to arm himself, the medical staff was readying Illya to be moved into the bed. Nurse Walker turned to Napoleon and silently gave him a “don’t-you-think-you’re-overreacting-a-bit?” look before returning her attention to the Russian.  
  
Napoleon slowly stood up, blinking sleep from his eyes. Christ, he was tired. He checked the clock on the wall. 8:22. Morning, he assumed. It was almost 7 am when he crawled into bed after showering, conferring with Alexander Waverly and eating a light meal.  
  
Solo walked over to the nurses and offered them a hand sliding Illya off the gurney. Nurse Walker began to object, then realized the futility of her refusal and allowed Napoleon to assist. In a smooth, seamless motion, the Russian agent’s sheet was pulled from the gurney to the bed.  
  
A stifled grunt escaped Illya’s throat.  
  
“Still in pain?” Napoleon quietly asked his partner. He brushed aside a few stray blond hairs from the Russian’s eyes.  
  
“Minor discomfort,” came a quiet response.  
  
Illya opened his eyes slightly and squinted against the bright lights in Room 6. He was glad to see his partner... always a comforting sight at times like this.  
  
Nurse Walker and her crew adjusted and readjusted the IV, tubes, and bottles. Then they busied themselves with updating the medical chart. They were practically finished when Dr. FIne came in. He held a clipboard with hand written notes fastened to it.  
  
Dr. Fine stood at the side of Illya’s bed, facing both the Russian and Solo.  
  
“We’ve identified the drugs that Thrush so generously pumped into your body, Mr. Kuryakin. It was one of their overly dispensed truth serums, but in all honesty, I doubt it would have had any effect on you,” the doctor announced. He was glad he had previously administered preventative anti-drug therapies to the Section Two agents. "For you. of course, the side effects are more of a problem than the actual serum."  
  
“That explains why I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck,” Kuryakin mumbled softly.  
  
“Well, I can take care of that for you now... since I know what we’re dealing with.”  
  
Illya tried glaring at Jonas Fine as ominously as possible. “Is this going to knock me dead on my ass?”  
  
Napoleon chuckled. “No offense, Illya, but I think you already are.”  
  
“You’re no help!” Illya snapped.  
  
Dr. Fine reached for the IV line, but the Russian stopped him before he could inject whatever counteractive medication the syringe contained into the tubing.  
  
“What about my information?” Illya asked his partner.  
  
“Mr. Waverly had it all under control when I left his office earlier. UNCLE has begun taking action diffusing the situation. I believe you saved the world again, Agent Kuryakin,” Solo said smiling, patting Illya’s arm. “Now please stop fidgeting and let Dr. Fine do his job.”  
  
Jonas Fine grinned and waved his syringe. “Ready?”  
  
Illya silently nodded and watched as the contents of the needle was emptied into his IV line. He felt the effects seconds later.  
  
“What the hell have you given me?” Kuryakin asked with slurred speech. The room was undulating slightly and beginning to dim. He blinked to restore his vision. The effects continued and increased.  
  
“A concoction which includes an antidote to rid your body of the remaining truth serum, combined with a painkiller and sedative.”  
  
Illya never heard the end of the explanation.  
  
“Was all that medication necessary?” Solo asked, nudging his partner slightly to see if he could be roused. The Russian was sound asleep, finally relaxed and pain free.  
  
“He’ll be good as new in no time, Mr. Solo. But for now, what he needs is completely undisturbed sleep,” Dr. Fine looked Napoleon straight in the eye, “as do you.”  
  
The doctor reached in his lab coat pocket and removed a vial of what appeared to be the fluid injected into Illya’s IV. He raised his eyebrows. silently threatening to use it on Solo.  
  
The senior agent grinned and shook his head “no,” understanding the meaning behind Jonas Fine’s gesture. He raised both hands in resignation and turned around to climb into the second bed.  
  
“Good night, Mr. Solo,” were the final words Napoleon heard before drifting off himself in to well-deserved slumber.

  
**FINIS**


End file.
